“Touch the sky,” sings Dana Weaver. Those three words reflect the pulse of the dance floor. Orchestrated by the conductor himself, his hand lowers the tempo to 125 BPMs. Dancing feet shuffle in sync. His head nods with approval. His smirk reveals. In the mind of kaoz is control. Kaoz commands music to create mood. Kaoz transforms moments into dancing movements. Most importantly, Kaoz summons dancers to journey. Their destiny sealed among the celestial,
Atmosphere.
Hemisphere.
Ionosphere.
Hour 1.Controlled Kaos /kənˈtrōld , ˈkāˌäs/ random events that are predictable, that can be controlled. Be it music, vocals, and dance.
Three songs earlier, stands the dancers. One wears a white tracksuit, one blue denim pants, another harem pants, black, and an ole’ friend in a multi-colored cubist top. A husband and wife duo with friend waits on the red drenched second floor. Moments later, a black door swings open. Behold, several square feet of dance floor prime real estate. Each dancer occupies a section, be a corner, main floor or between hanging full fat audio amplifiers. The husband, wife, and friend secure seats on black sofas spread adjacent walls that lead to the elevated DJ station positioned on the back wall.
“I got a woman,” gloats Zakes Bantwini. Black Coffee’s all-to-familiar “JuJu” is updated with a heavier ponce and pronounced prowl that packs a punch. A thrilling rollercoaster of vocals play alongside tracks before disco appears wearing roller skates. Dancing feet turned walking feet brisk through pockets of patrons. At the bar, a bottled Adam’s ale hydrates the soul. Hmmm, D.C. LaRue’s “Cathedrals” (JKriv Dub) ushers
Hour 2. Kaos Theory /ˈkāˌäs , THirē/It takes only a fraction of change in one note, instrument or drum loop before behavior goes bedlam. What starts as predictable becomes random, chaotic.
“Brrr.” trumpets shout. Percussions thump. A talking bass guitar, “whomps.” “Hey, hey, hey.” “Just a little love.” Josh Milan sings on Louie Vega’s “The World Is A Family” (Afrohouse Vamp Dub). Cheers float to the strobe lights crossing the ceiling. Love’s uplifting message ignites dancing bodies. Limbs, joints and muscles are warm. Thus is the dance floor. Every space is inhabited with matter. Particles collide into one another. The room’s energy morphs into a dynamic force. A force controlled by kaos himself,
Kerri Chandler. /ˈkerē , ˈCHan(d)lər/ The Jersey legend requires no definition. If a house head knows not of Kerri’s works, one’s house music card is revoked. Be it as it may, Kerri Chandler is house music. The icon playing open to close is to be experienced. Real talk: Kerri playing a rare set anywhere in these Divided States of America is a must attend. Tonight, he schools the babes on true house music. “House is you. House is me.” He tributes afro-house. Culoe De Song’s “Y.O.U.D” Then beats go dark. Atmospheric deep. Dark underground raves of folklore and legend come to mind. A mob of madhouse ensues. Hands beat the varnished wooden DJ station. Heads bob for fresh air. Mouths open to breathe-in and breathe-out. Techno burps, beeps-bongs-and-bleeps, penetrate the soundsphere. Chords, pads and kick drums echo from outer speaker to inner speaker. Kerri’s ear for sound is second to none. Take, Afefe Iku’s “Mirror Dance,” the Yoruba Soul Mix plays underneath djembe drumming. As other instruments are layered to the song structure, Chandler mixes three songs at once. The acoustics are so crisp and clear that audiophiles distinguish hidden tappings within the recorded instruments. The custom 4-way Funktion-One gets a workout. So does Kerri’s keyboard as his fingers slide left to right across whites and blacks, an image of piano keys printed on his T-shirt.
Minutes later, Oveous Maximus rapping “Rather you was black, white, Jew, or Gentile, it never made a difference in our house.” brings the loudest applause thus far. Throughout the room, dancers “back-it-up, come-through” as hips swivel round n’ round, hands stretch into the trionisphere, and knees drop to the floor.
“I have to peeeeee.” Announces Miss Thang, a young dancer whose doe eyes survey the sea of faces stretching the room. “I can’t move anywhere.”
Bodies are packed tight, too tight. For those that are able dance on couches and around tray tables to Kerri’s “Atmospheric Beats” (Original Extended Version). Miss Thang whips around and drops her torso to the ground with legs outstretched, one in the front and the other in back as Carolyn Sylvan belts “pick me up” on Mood II Swing’s “Closer” (Swing to Mood Dub).
Hell naw. Here they come. A bearded 30-something rubbing his erection on his blonde escort, a James Van Der Berk dork wearing a business suit to a club, why?, attempts to molest the DJ booth, two fist pumping bros-clearly clueless-to the fact that house music was created for dancing, and not fisting, and two blondes who wander upstage, stop short at the DJ station, and stare at Chandler as if sending him telepathy song requests. Beware the….
Colonizers /ˈkäləˌnīzər/One who enters an area already inhabited with native dancers, who tries to take over the area by bringing their bros and babes either to stand, swipe, text, chat, flirt, or who tries to interrupt a DJ for gain by posing for selfies or requesting songs. These people lack respect for dancers, dance space and most of all the DJ.
Colonizers be damned as you struggle to dance to my beat.
Hour 3.5 Kaoz /ˈkāˌäs/When all hell breaks loose.
“You tryin’ na kill me?” Miss Thang replies as her dance partner beckons “C’mon. Get up. Dance.”
When Kaoz calls you back to dance on the coach, he plays “I Can’t Get No Sleep,” your love is making me weak. Arrrggghhhh!! Feet stand on the tips of toes trying to catch a rare glimpse of a diva belting in the DJ booth. But wait, is India actually singing live? The Funktion-One’s pristine sound hoodwinks admirers.
When Kaoz won’t let you leave the club, he plays Oliver Dollar & Nils Orhmann’s “John’s Church.” Pastor Shirley Caesar screams, “That I dance too much,” words that speaks truth.
Across the cement stands Spooky Security, wearing head-to-toe black, who commands a drunken millennial to leave the room. Drunken dude refuses. The hooded reaper lifts his finger and points dude towards the door. Drunken bro won’t budge. So, Spooky Security is all bout to lay hands and go all sicko mode. When slowly bro backs away. Dude turns around and proceeds towards the room’s door. Following closely behind is Spooky Security’s billowy black shadow.
Whew. This venue is no nonsense. Don’t even think of whipping out a smartphone to video the Kaoz. Security swoops outta nowhere to swipe the phone from your hand in a flash.
When Kaoz calls you to remove your rain boots and dance in socks, he plays “Rain.” Damn feet get soaked again, as Kerri releases a steady downpour of “Dance.” His Centro Fly Mix of the Earth People’s classic reigns. Watch out! Boom! One friend death drops on a couch cushion.
“Excuse me.” Then comes a tap on the shoulder. “You got any Molly?” A could be line-backer for the Redskins continues, “It’s for my girl.” His bicep the size of a 4-gallon jug points to a woman seated on the couch living her best life.
When Kaoz has you dancing wearing only one shoe on foot, playing Pal Joey featuring Soho’s “Hot Music.” The jazz house number lifts dancing feet off the crowd. Surely, the few dancers left dance on cloud nine. Until a final tap on the shoulder reveals it’s 4 am and time to dance out of the club’s front door. Mind you Kerri keeps playing records and his keyboard. Without warning, blink and miss the grey flash that bolts pass the bar. It’s security! Outdoors, a smashed hipster is thrown onto Florida Avenue faster than a Jussie Smollett allegation tossed out of court. Security warns, “And don’t come back.”
Ah, it’s just another frigid night in the nation’s capital.
words: aj dance
illustration: aj art
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Tags: afro house music, flash club, flash dc club, funky house music, house music, house music dancing, Kerri Chandler, soulful house music, Washington D.C.